While falling, Thomas felt his body twist and tear through space itself—his limbs stretching like wax, his skin peeling apart and reknitting, a kaleidoscope of reality shifting and shredding around him. It was as if he was passing through layers of nightmares stitched together by invisible hands.

  Then—impact.

  He slammed into something solid, wet, and cold. The pain was real, sharp enough to blank his vision. For a moment, all sound fled. He lay there in the silence, breathless, ribs aching, hands pressed to damp stone.

  Then the silence broke.

  Screams. Shouting. Gasping. The thud of bodies falling. Moans of confusion.

  Thomas rolled onto his side, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. A pulsating purple glow webbed across the walls like veins in a diseased body, casting long, dancing shadows on the damp floor. Above them was only darkness—no sky, no ceiling. Just… black.

  Around him, people stirred. Maybe ten or more.

  The chamber stretched far into shadow, circular and endless. But what drew Thomas’s attention—what froze his breath

  —were the doors.

  Dozens. All around. Unevenly spaced. Some crumbled like ancient ruins, others sealed with rusted metal. Each bore symbols scorched into the surface, glowing faintly red. Thomas knew them.

  He had seen them before.

  Volume 2, Chapter 1:The Labyrinth of Sorrow.

  “This is the Maze,” he whispered.

  Suddenly, the air vibrated. A low, crackling static rippled through the chamber, sending shivers down Thomas’s spine. Then a voice echoed—not through the air, but in their bones. Cold. Mechanical.

  “TRIAL ONE INITIATED: The Hollow Among You.”

  “You all have been placed in a group. One among you is no longer who they claim to be. One is Taken. Find the impostor, or die. You have three hours. The Maze will shift every thirty minutes. Fail to move forward… and you will be consumed.”

  Panic bloomed like wildfire.

  “What the hell does that mean!?” shouted a bald man with a thick, muscular frame, voice cracking with desperation. “Taken? What does that mean!? I bought the book last week—I didn’t even finish the damn prologue!”

  A voice, quiet and calm, slipped through the chaos from the far corner. “It’s a Hollow.”

  Thomas turned. The voice belonged to the pale woman from before—the one who had sobbed as the Dreadlords spoke.

  “I remember her…” he muttered.

  The bald man’s face twisted. “What the hell is a Hollow?”

  Thomas stepped forward, his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest.

  “A Hollow is a human possessed by something ancient. An eldritch parasite that wears a person like a skin-suit. It mimics memories, voice, emotions. Perfectly".

  The bald man looked at him, eyes wild. “You say that like you’ve seen it.”

  “I read it,” Thomas replied. “In the book".

  “Name’s John,” the bald man said, as if the act of sharing made things more solid. “And you are?”

  “Thomas.”

  A new voice joined them—mocking, almost playful. “Hey bald guy, you’re really unlucky.”

  A woman approached, striking in appearance. Long black hair, blue eyes, a military jacket hanging loosely off her shoulders. She smirked as if she knew more than she should.

  “I’m Sara James,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Thomas. John.”

  John raised a brow. “What do you mean unlucky?”

  “You don’t know the rules. You didn’t read the damn book. And now you’re in the Maze. If that’s not bad luck, I don’t know what is.”

  John scowled.

  A voice cracked from nearby.

  “I don’t want to die. This isn’t fair. Someone HELP!”. The praying boy—no older than seventeen—trembled, tears on his cheeks. “This is hell. It has to be.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Sara crossed her arms. “We can’t find the Hollow. The book never gave instructions for that. Best thing we can do is move forward… and hope the Maze doesn’t eat us.”

  “I remember everything I read,” she added, more to herself than anyone else.

  Then she raised her voice. “Let’s take inventory. How far did everyone get in the series? Be honest—it might save your life.”

  “I read up to Volume 10,” she said.

  “Volume 5,” said a man in glasses, pushing them nervously up his nose.

  “Volume 2,” whispered the praying boy. “I didn’t even like it. So why me?”

  “Volume 9,” said an older man, gray hair matted with sweat. “It didn’t have main characters. Just… stories. Deaths. No one ever survived past ten Trials.”

  “Volume 1,” said a kid—barely fourteen.

  “Volume 8,” murmured the pale woman. “I used to read it at night. After putting my kids to bed.”

  “I just touched it!” John barked. “Didn’t read a f**king word!”

  Thomas hesitated. “I… read it in my free time.”

  "Liar", he thought. He had read every volume. Twice. Annotated them. Obsessively studied every passage.

  He couldn’t let them know that. Not yet.

  “We need to move,” Thomas said, scanning the doors.

  Eight of them now gathered: Thomas, Sara, John, the pale woman, the boy, the man in glasses, the older man, and the kid.

  Then—a groan.

  One door creaked open on its own. Above it, carved in jagged runes, a single word burned in red:

  λ?θεια

  “What the hell’s that mean?” John asked, stepping toward it.

  The man in glasses adjusted his frames. “Alētheia. Ancient Greek. It means truth.”

  Sara’s eyes lit up. “This is the first real door. The others are traps.”

  She turned to Thomas. “You remember the passage? Volume Two, Chapter three”

  He nodded slowly. “The real door had a silver knob… and a word in Old Tongue. Truth.”

  Sara smirked. “Guess that confirms it.”

  The door stood tall, wide enough for them all. The silver knob glinted like moonlight.

  Thomas stepped forward, hand resting on the cold metal. The others hesitated, breathing ragged, hearts pounding.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and turned the knob.

  The hallway beyond was narrow, dimly lit by flickering torches embedded in the stone. The walls pulsed faintly—as if breathing.

  “Stay close,” Thomas warned.

  The moment the last of them crossed through, the door slammed shut behind them. Then came a grinding, seismic thud as the Maze shifted.

  Stone scraped. Distant walls rumbled.

  The air changed.

  “Every thirty minutes,” Sara whispered. “It rearranges. If you’re in a dead-end when it shifts… it eats you.”

  The path split in two ahead.

  Both corridors looked the same—dark, wet, lined with stone, ceiling arching like the ribs of some long-dead beast.

  “Which way?” the boy asked, voice trembling.

  Thomas turned to Sara. “In the book, didn’t one group try the left corridor and—”

  “—got skewered by spiked walls, yeah,” she finished. “So we go right.”

  They moved in silence.

  Every step was a prayer. Every shadow a threat.

  Then came the whisper.

  A soft, subtle hiss—just behind Thomas’s ear.

  “Thomas…”

  He turned. No one was there.

  He glanced at the others—none reacted.

  "It knows my name."

  “Did anyone else hear that?” he asked.

  Sara frowned. “Hear what?”

  Shit

  The Hollow was close.

  It had begun.